


to rebel against heaven

by Rethira



Category: Tales of Symphonia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:30:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man wakes in a field with no recollection of who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to rebel against heaven

**Author's Note:**

> written for the "amnesia" square on my trope-bingo card
> 
> this is shamelessly self-indulgent okay

He wakes up in the middle of a field. More accurately, in the middle of a smoking crater in the middle of a field. He climbs out of it, staggering just slightly when he reaches the top – an inquisitive monster slinks closer, and before he even registers his movements, his hand has reached for the sword at his hip and swung it – the monster lies beheaded before him, lithe body convulsing.

He glances between his hand and the sword before shaking his head and wiping the sword on the grass. It’s a good sword, although it glows strangely. It feels familiar in his hand, and once it’s clean he sheathes it again. No more monsters are about, and there are no landmarks – not that he would know if there were, it occurs to him.

He doesn’t even recall his name.

A cursory inspection of his clothes doesn’t provide him with an answer either, and the only other item he has is a locket. The pattern on the metal has been worn away, as if by an overzealous thumb, and the clasp opens easily. A man he assumes is himself is depicted within, beside a pretty young woman. The man is holding a tiny baby. His heart clenches when he looks at it, but he doesn’t recognise them.

With nothing else to do, he picks a direction, and begins to walk. There are monsters about, but they all fall easily to his sword – and his magic, when he realises he has it. He’s human, he’s sure of that, but the words to cast come easily to his lips anyway, and the magic that responds is alarmingly strong.

It’s worrying. He suspects waking up in smouldering craters is unusual, and he _knows_ that being human and being able to use magic is unusual. Before he even sees the rolling fields giving way to farmland, he resolves not to tell anyone of his abilities. There’s a farmer eventually, and he slowly stands up. Suspicion is plain on his face, suspicion and distrust.

“We don’t need any of your sort around here,” he calls, raising his scythe in threat.

“I simply need directions. An inn.”

The farmer relaxes a little at that and says, “There’s an inn that way. Past the village square.”

“Thank you.”

He walks on from the farmer, and soon enough the village comes into sight. It looks a quaint thing, all wooden houses and greenery. Pretty. His heart hurts when he sees it.

The people don’t greet him particularly welcomingly, but the inn at least permits him to stay. “For one night only,” the proprietor says. “It’s the Chosen’s birthday in less than a week, we don’t have room to spare for....” She trails off, but her face crinkles with distaste.

He nods absently and slips off to his room, even though he’s at a loss. He has nothing to his name – a handful of gald collected from the monsters he fought, the clothes on his back, which are obviously out of place, and his sword. The thought of giving the locket away is almost physically painful; whoever he was before, the locket was important. The only thing of the old him left.

He opens it again, and slowly slides the picture free. In cramped writing on the back, it says _Aurion_ , and a quick string of numbers – the date, he assumes.

“Aurion,” he says, and it’s definitely a name he’s said before, but it doesn’t sit quite right. Still. A name. It’s better than nothing.

When night comes, he does not sleep, even though he tries.

The Mayor himself officially throws Aurion out, muttering something about riff-raff and undesirables – he seems a toad of a man, and Aurion dislikes him on principle. He has nowhere else to go, and with the supposed celebration happening, he doesn’t like to leave either. There’s a forest near the village, so he stays on the outskirts of it. None of the villagers come near it, despite the weakness of the monsters there, and when he heads too deeply into it he starts to feel sick, so he stays away.

There’s enough to eat in the forest – trees with fruit, and wild birds with good meat on them. A stream winds down towards the village, and it all feels so familiar that he’s sure he’s done this before. Perhaps not here exactly, but around. He’s lived off the land, hunted and foraged for food and sat under the stars in lieu of sleeping.

He counts the stars, because there’s little else to do. There’s no-one to tell him their names, no-one to discuss them with, but it’s relaxing.

It’s easy enough to tell when the celebrations begin; people come to the village in droves, smiling and happy and wish him “Happy Chosen’s Day!”

He manages to slip into the village largely unnoticed, what with all the people about, and there are streamers and decorations everywhere, and stalls selling food and little trinkets. Near the centre of the village, the crowds thicken, so he cannot see what they’re all looking at – but then a cry goes up from the front and a man raises a little girl to sit on his shoulders. She can’t be more than five, clinging to her father’s shoulders and looking around, only a little bewildered.

Part of him wants to whisk her away, get her away from all the _people_ \- but he doesn’t dare. It isn’t his place to intervene. The crowd parts to let her by, smiling and murmuring, “The Chosen, the Chosen,” over and over again. She smiles, but Aurion’s not so distanced that he cannot see the confusion and unhappiness on her face.

She’s just a child.

He turns and walks away, towards the village entrance. There’s a slight commotion over there, raised voices and the like – someone yells, quite loudly, “ _Genis Sage!_ ”

And then there’s another yell, the cry of a little boy, and he says, “I just wanted to show Noishe to Colette!”

And he’s heard that name before. He knows Noishe – Noishe is- big. White and green, dog like. Protozoan. Noishe was his, his pet. It can’t be the same, Noishe is _dead_ , but-

His feet lead him to the entrance, and the girl is there now too, and half the people from before – a young woman with white hair is holding a little boy back, and the children are crying, the girl and the boy, though not half so loudly as the other child-

“Lloyd!” someone shouts. “Lloyd Irving, how many times do we have to tell you!?”

It’s the mayor, and he’s stamping forwards and the crowd shifts just enough to reveal a boy in red and Kratos – that’s his name, _that’s his name_ , he forgot it when he fell, fell all the way from Derris Kharlan – Kratos _knows_ Lloyd, he thought Lloyd was _dead_ -

He never can quite remember how he forces his way through the crowd, but the next thing he knows he’s hugging Lloyd tight to his chest and saying his name over and over again, and he doesn’t even care that people are watching because Lloyd goes limp for a second, two, and then he says, “Daddy?”

“Yes, Lloyd, yes,” Kratos says, and Lloyd sobs loudly and wraps his arms around Kratos’ neck and bursts into tears and wails, “Daddy!”

**Author's Note:**

> This is set roughly three years after Anna died; Lloyd is six, and still has vague memories of Kratos.


End file.
